Of Texts and Toasters: John's POV
by TYRider
Summary: It's too epic for summary. Just read it for yourself. No slash. To be read along with Sherley Holmes' Sherlock POV of the same series of texts.


**A/N: This is one part of two-sided fic. My friend Sherley Holmes and I each took a point of view and wrote the "inbetween the lines" bits for a series of John and Sherlock texts we sent to each other. This is the result. So, if you've stumbled across this half first be sure to go read Sherlock's POV once your done. Reading order doesn't matter. No, we didn't compare writing of  
the individual POVs until the end so any similarities before like the last paragraphs are happy accidents. Enjoy! R&R is encouraged!**

John's phone buzzed in his pocket. He knew who it was, he didn't even bother to check the ID. He opened his eyes reluctantly and pulled the desperately vibrating mobile out of his pocket grudgingly. He gave it a quick this-is-your-fault glare before opening the text.

_Where are you? - SH_

Another glare and a long-suffering sigh. Leave it to Sherlock to forget where he was. John supposed he could blame it on the broodfest going on in the living room. Sherlock was blindingly brilliant, sure, but when it came to things as domestic as keeping tabs on your flatmate… he could be spectacularly unaware.

_Upstairs. ~JW_

Was his slow reply. He closed his phone and his eyes and shoved the phone back in his pocket. He was tired. Bone-aching, muscle-cramping, shoulder-screaming tired. Before he could settle back on the bed his phone started buzzing again. He wondered briefly if he should ignore it. _Probably. _Was his conclusion and for a little while he did, but eventually the annoying vibration in his pocket and the niggling curiosity in his mind got the better of him. He opened the new message and then he wished he hadn't.

_Need you to look something up. - SH_

There were many things John would do for Sherlock, including shooting killer cabbies and running haphazardly through the middle of London, but there had to be a line somewhere and this looked like as good a spot as any.

_No. ~JW_

There. He'd done it. He'd refused Sherlock something. _Let's see what he thinks of that._ John thought with a wry smile. It felt nice to surprise Sherlock sometimes, almost as good as it did to tell him no when he was being a git.

The phone buzzed again. John was shocked when he opened the next text.

_What's wrong? - SH_

Was Sherlock actually concerned or was he working an angle? John couldn't decide. _Probably both._ John wasn't sure how to reply. Lots of things were wrong, but which one or which combination of things would make an appropriate answer?

_Nothing._

Was the hasty reply. He didn't realize until too late that he'd forgotten his customary signature. John cringed, hoping against all odds that Sherlock wouldn't notice. New text:

_Tell me. - SH_

For some unknown reason that small demand rubbed John the wrong way. Maybe it had to do with knowing that what to most would sound caring probably was just a vehicle for some selfish ulterior motive, maybe it was because John really didn't want to talk about what was wrong, maybe it was because they were out of milk. Whatever the reasoning "Tell me." became the proverbial straw that broke John Watson's back. Something inside Doctor John unassuming-eager-to-please-obliging-laid-back-calm Watson and was replaced with the steely Captain.

_Why? ~JW_

_Not like you really care. ~JW_

Yes, John knew he sounded like an over-emotional preteen. Yes, he knew the words were sharp. Yes, he knew his words might possibly hurt the self-proclaimed sociopath downstairs. No, he couldn't be bothered to care. Well, he did care a little, later. He tried not to think about what Sherlock might be thinking.

Everything was wrong and he'd just like a moment to himself to pout and mourn and reconcile things in his mind. And he'd like to do it without a patronizing Doctor Sherlock the Shrink therapy session over texts, thank you very much.

He sat up on the edge of the bed and rubbed his wounded shoulder instinctively.

Another text, another glare at the mobile.

_Why wouldn't I care? You're my flat mate. - SH_

Another surprise—an admission of caring. Interesting, that. John didn't spend much time thinking about his reply, simply typed out the first thing that popped into his mind that wasn't "bugger off" and hit send.

_Because 'caring isn't an advantage'? ~JW_

Goodness did John feel the truth of those words. Normally he'd fight tooth and nail to defend human emotions, but at the moment caring really did feel like a "defect found in the loosing side." He cast a forlorn glance at the crumpled letter on the floor across the room and wished with all of his very much human heart that he could just stop caring—stop _feeling._

_I have a few weaknesses. - SH_

Did Sherlock bloody Holmes just admit to weakness? John reread the text very carefully. _How do I reply to that?_ He wondered. He was touched by Sherlock's admission. Uncertain fingers tapped across the keys, trying different combinations of words and ending up just erasing them all. He lay back down and stared at the ceiling for a moment. Finally:

_I've had a bad day. ~JW_

He figured the best way to tell Sherlock thank you was to give him what he wanted—data.

His mobile buzzed anxiously.

_Unfortunate. My fault? - SH_

John didn't spend much time thinking before responding to this one.

_Yes to the first bit and no to the second. Not actually your fault at all. Sorry for being a git over it. It's fine. ~JW_

Doctor John Watson was back and attempting to do damage control. First: smooth Sherlock's feathers. Next: pretend everything is okay until it actually is. Hopefully this text would pacify Sherlock's fears and satisfy his curiosity.

_Right then. What's wrong? - SH_

No such luck apparently. John weighed his options he could continue to pretend everything was fine or he could just go ahead and tell Sherlock now. Either way Sherlock would eventually figure out the truth once they were together in person again. Probably deduce it from his hair or eyebrow or something. John sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose, reluctant to give any answer at all to Sherlock, but eventually he managed a name.

_Mitch Cooper. ~JW_

Damn, how even writing out the name made his shoulder give a twinge and his leg ache, not to mention the tightness in his chest and the guilt and feeling of failure that had never left after he'd read the letter last night. He had already been exhausted from his day of errand-running/bad-guy-chasing/typical-day-of-living-with-Sherlock before the letter and the fitful, flashback filled night it had produced.

John's phone buzzed with Sherlock's latest and obviously confused reply.

_Football player? - SH_

John would've laughed at having stumped the great consulting detective if the lack of knowledge about Mitch Cooper hadn't driven home that deep-seated empty feeling. He sent his brief explanation and hit send.

_No. He's the soldier I got shot working on. He survived that day and I'd always felt that saving him had made the bullet and the infection that followed worth it. I just found out he died in action. ~JW_

And with the press of a button John was back in Afghanistan living it all over again.

_Hot sand beneath him, hot sun above him, hot blood all over him. He was stitching up Mitch's side after having removed the piece of shrapnel, giving him all sorts of random reassurances. Finally, last stitch._

_John's vision exploded in a bright display of white accompanied by searing pain. "God, please let me live."_

John was pulled from the flashback by the now welcome buzzing of his phone and as soon as he'd slipped into the episode he came back. Gasping and sweaty he sat up and ran a hand through his mussed hair. _I must look a sight._ He thought humorously before opening his phone.

_Can I help? - SH_

John smiled. Well, his face made the dismal half-hearted equivalent of one anyway. Sherlock really did care. John knew what he needed and as much as his body and psyche protested at the thought he gave Sherlock an honest answer.

_Get me a case. Bug me. Keep me busy. ~JW_

Thinking of another hard truth he added:

_Take the Browning. It's in the toaster._

Forgetting his signature in his hurry to send the text before he could change his mind.

He needed activity, he needed company, he need to be useful, he needed to feel needed. Anything to get rid of the empty, sinking, useless depression that was threatening to consume him. He need Sherlock—his brilliance his chaos and activity, his flurry of action and purpose and he needed him to _need him_.

He didn't have to wait long for Sherlock's reply.

_Done. Come downstairs. Bring laptop. I have a case for you. - SH_

Good. That was good. John felt some of the tension in his shoulders relax. Another text.

_Probably dangerous. - SH_

_Even better._ John thought as he grabbed the laptop and made a dash for the stairs. Everything really would be fine.

"Who the HELL is that and what is he doing semiconscious on the floor in our flat?"


End file.
